


We Are Tied to the Truth

by flonkertons



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Season 2, Sexual tension haircuts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 20:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4934194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flonkertons/pseuds/flonkertons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Clarke holds up the scissors, an old pair with a rubber grip that's fading. "I need a haircut."</i> Post Season 2 finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Tied to the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> This was the hardest thing to write ever and it took me about two months of agony and kinda made me certain I'm never going to write a canon-verse fic again. As a note, just ignore all Season 3 spoilers you may have seen because they all suck and don't apply here. And they have scissors because if the stupid Grounders can invent a fake ass language in 97 years, the Ark can carry scissors.

She runs into him with scissors clutched in her hand.

"Steady," he says, his voice a low rumble. Bellamy is tense, something that's written all over his face, his shoulders locked with the same signs, and she holds back a sigh.

"Sorry," she mumbles. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, annoyed at how it feels, and shoulders past him.

"Your mom wants to talk to you."

"Good for her," she says back, a flash of irritation at the thought of another _session_ with her mother. If Bellamy hasn't spoken a word, her mom's been the complete opposite, unwilling to let her out of her sight, trying to sit Clarke down for a talk every hour of the day. She knows she worries and she understands that, mostly, but. It's suffocating. She hates the scrutiny, hates being required to run every thought and action by her. Some things never change.

"Just the messenger," Bellamy points out, catching up to her. She tries to ignore his presence beside her, despite how quickly she relaxes once his steps match hers, and only succeeds for the first few seconds.

"I talked to her two hours ago."

"Okay."

"I just wanted twenty minutes alone," she continues, not sure why she's trying to convince Bellamy of her case when he doesn't seem to care. There's a part of her that is hoping he does. Her hold on the scissors tightens.

"To do what?"

Clarke holds up the scissors, an old pair with a rubber grip that's fading. "I need a haircut." They're not haircut scissors, but that's the least of her worries. Whatever works will work for her. Bellamy raises an eyebrow, runs his eyes over her face, traces the lines of her hair, lingers at the ends.

Something in his eyes flickers before he nods. "I'm not stopping you," he says, holding his hands up in surrender, and she's grateful. When they get to the empty med bay, she grabs some tarp that they've been using to cover some supplies and expects him to walk the other way, to attend to something else, but he follows her as she heads into the adjacent washroom. It's a small, supply closet sized space with a sink and a mirror and a toilet that hasn't worked since the Ark crashed to the ground. Clarke only needs it for the sink and the mirror. She covers the floor with tarp and sets the scissors on the side of the sink. When she looks up in the mirror, she catches Bellamy's eye. He looks away. She sighs this time.

"Why are you here, Bellamy?" She asks, trying to will him to look at her reflection. It doesn't work, but he does say something, even if it's not an answer.

"Why do you need a haircut so bad?" He moves away from her to sit on the lid of the toilet, staring at the wall opposite him. She wants to ask him to look at her, but nothing comes out.

This limbo between them, the uncertainty of where she stands with Bellamy since she returned, the difference between the angry set of his jaw when they had their first conversation and the tight, overwhelming hug when she first arrived home, keeps her mind spinning. She doesn't know how to act around him, torn between wanting to make him talk to her and respecting his clear wish to have nothing to do with her. It has to be because she left, but when she thinks back to his forgiveness, she doesn't understand how it lines up. He hasn't said anything about it, but neither has she.

This, she realizes, is the first time they've spent together for more than five minutes in months.

Clarke steps closer to the sink, peers at her reflection in the mirror, takes in the girl that she sees. There's a frown on her face, scratches on her left cheek and chin, bags under her eyes, her lips are dry, chapped. Her hair is a dirty, matted mess, falling past her shoulders, hanging limply, and – she hates it.

She runs her fingers through her hair a few times, eyeballs the length in the mirror, and decides she'll cut it until it feels right. It's not what she does with her haircuts, always keeping to trims and a style that doesn't change, but this is the only thing she feels like she can control. Clarke feels Bellamy's eyes on her, a thrill of acknowledgement shooting up her spine, as she separates a lock of hair in front of her, picks up the scissors and lops off just a little off the ends.

"Clarke," he says, warning in his voice. She doesn't answer, repeats the action to the next lock of hair. And the next. She cuts off a longer length for the one after that, fucking hates how uneven it is, thinks  _to hell with it_. As far as rebellions go, this is tame, but then again, when you have a thousand plus body count on your hands, everything pales in comparison.

Bellamy's hand wraps around her wrist when she sets down the scissors. She turns to look at him and he meets her eyes for the first time. His grip is loose and she could jerk her hand out of it, but she doesn't.

"Why are you doing this?" He asks, this time less sharp and more curious.

"I need to," she says immediately, her free hand curling around the edge of the sink. "I just hate this, this hair, everything – I need something to change, I need –" Her fingers curl tighter, her bitten down nails digging into the metal.

"To do something you can control," he finishes, and she blinks, nods tightly. He has understanding etched on his face and her shoulders fall, her fingers release from its grip. The scissors clatter into the sink and he doesn't look away from her.

"Yeah," she says quietly. There's silence after that, but she shivers slightly when she feels Bellamy's thumb caress her wrist. His other hand reaches into the sink to grab the scissors, holding them up in question.

"Still want a haircut?"

"What, you're gonna give me one?" It's almost teasing.

Bellamy shrugs. "I've been known to give a few good ones in my lifetime," he says. _Octavia_ , she realizes. Of course. Clarke struggles between accepting and denying his offer, but eventually nods and agrees to it because she doesn't know if her hands will start shaking if she continues and she likes that they're here together. It feels like some kind of normal.

He steps behind her, slots in the confined space easily, and they both freeze up for a fraction of a second. Then he untucks some hair caught under her shirt, runs his fingers through the ends to get rid of final tangles. When he asks her how short she wants it, she shrugs, doesn't have a real answer.

"Tell me when to stop," he murmurs, starting on the section of hair she's already cut off, evening out the ends and then moving onto the rest in a right to left motion. There's not much for her to do except to look in the mirror, watch as hair falls onto the floor, Bellamy with his head ducked down.

Her hair falls at shoulder-length when she asks, "When are you going to stop avoiding me?" Clarke says deliberately. At least this way, she has him right there, and if he walks away, at least she tried. Bellamy stiffens at the question and then straightens up, lowering the scissors and catching her eye in the mirror.

"I'm right here," he says, adopting that irritatingly false tone he uses with her mother.

"You know what I mean."

"I can't be avoiding you if I'm standing here with you, can I?"

She rolls her eyes, unable to help it. He cocks his head, raises an eyebrow.

"Then the other times? Every time I come even twenty feet within you?" Clarke says, defiant. In the mirror, she sees his jaw tick.

"Let's just finish this," he says, waiting for her response.

"You can't not talk to me forever."

"Is that a challenge?"

Clarke pulls away from him, turning around so that she's now facing him, her head turned up slightly so she can look at him. His lips are pursed but he meets her glare.

"Look," she says directly. "I don't want it to be like this between us, okay? I want to be able to _talk_ to you again."

Bellamy lets out a scoff. She can't help the sting of it. "So _now_ you want to talk?"

"Good a time as any, right?" She looks around at the room, suffocating and relieving all at once, and gestures to the space. "Nothing's stopping us!" Bellamy moves away from her, hitting his elbow against the wall in his haste, and he curses loudly before running a hand through his hair.

"Do you know when I wanted to talk?" He finally says, voice quiet but the words loud in the distance between them. "Four months ago."

Clarke swallows hard.

"And where were you?" He says bitterly, as if he hates the sound of the question he's asking.

She doesn't think about it, reaching out for his arm, but he flinches and ends up running a hand through his hair again. The move hits her hard, a sharp ache settling in her chest. When she thought about him before coming home, she had thought about how it would feel if Bellamy hated her, hated her for killing the innocent people she had said she'd save, hated her for making all the choices she had, hated her for _leaving_. It felt unbearable thinking about that possibility, but experiencing it was worse. It was real. It was right in front of her.

"Bellamy," Clarke chokes out. The room is even more suffocating now, even as she notices the fight leave Bellamy's stance, his face.

"I get why you had to leave," he says slowly. His gaze roams over her face, lingering on the scratches on her cheeks.

Bellamy pauses, trying to gather his thoughts. Then, "But I am _just_ as responsible for what happened as you are. Why were you allowed to run away but I wasn't?"

"It _wasn't_ – I wasn't _running away_!" She yells suddenly, feeling a surge of fury rise in her. "I couldn't take it anymore! I couldn't go every day and see everyone and pretend nothing was wrong and that I hadn't – hadn't killed all those people, hadn't made direct decisions that led us here!"

"I was fucking there too!" Bellamy shouts back, up in her face now, and she doesn't back down, shoving him back with a push of her hand against his chest. He stumbles back slightly and locks his shoulders in resistance.

"I know that! I can't _forget_ that!"

He continues ahead, voice hard, "I think about all those people _we_ killed _every_ day! There's not a _moment_ I don't remember what we did. Maya and Vincent and those people – they _helped me_ , and I repaid that by murdering them. You think I'm not as guilty? That you deserve to bear this burden more?"

Clarke can feel the frustration pounding in her head, the guilt of the reminders, the truth of Bellamy's words all coming together, and it's with a helpless admittance, a hard shove against his chest, as she cries, "I don't know what to _do_!"

"And you think I do? I'm not – _you_. I don't _have_ a plan," he says, closing his eyes in an attempt to climb down from the adrenaline and anger. "But I'm right here. And I want you to be here too."

A long silence envelops them and Clarke has to count to ten ( _eleven, twelve, thirteen –_ ), her eyes trained on a patch on his thin blue shirt, struggling to ignore his words that ring in her ears. It takes Bellamy's hand folding over hers gently, somehow twisted in the front of his shirt, to pull her out of her thoughts. She blinks a few times to get out of her head, then tries to unfurl the tight clutch of the shirt's fabric, but Bellamy keeps her hand anchored there with his. His hand is warm against hers. They stand there for a few silent minutes, only accompanied by the sound of their breathing and the thumping of her heart, loud and unyielding to her ears. Bellamy is soothing, his presence comforting, reliable, certain, and his familiar need to take care of people makes her feel safe.

"I know," she says, shakily, and at his confused look, she continues. "What you're saying. That I'm not the only one who was there. That I didn't do it alone." He nods slowly as his thumb caresses her knuckles.

Clarke squeezes his shirt. "I know what you're saying but – I don't know how to _understand_ that. Because... " She grasps for a way to explain it. "How could I _ever_ want you to feel the way I feel every day? How could I do that to you?" She barely suppresses a shudder. Bellamy tightens his grip on her hand, turns a beseeching look on her. She sucks in a breath at the intensity she sees.

"It's not something you can or can't _do_. No matter how hard you try, you can't shield me from that. You can't shield anyone else from it," he says, insists. "You know what? I'll always be guilty for the things I've done. And I'm never going to forget that." Remorse colors his face and Clarke remembers the day they sat under that tree, exhausted, with Dax a few feet away. _I'm a monster_ , he had confessed. _I'm a monster_ , she had thought when she saw the dead bodies eerily still in Mt. Weather.

Something sticks in her throat as Bellamy laces their fingers together. She can't help but squeeze them tight, like she needs him to know she's listening.

Bellamy's voice goes softer, falters a little as he continues. "But it doesn't mean that – that I want to do this alone," he says, frowning. "I want – I want us to work through this together." He doesn't plead, doesn't demand, just looks at her with resignation in his eyes and the merest, slightest sign of hope on his face.

Clarke thinks back to his words, his plea, his misery at the gate all those months ago. She thinks back to his hand on hers as they pulled the lever that destroyed the Mountain. She thinks about how she never felt right away from home, away from Bellamy, away from her team. She thinks back to Lexa's cold, damning _love is weakness_ and she thinks, _no, it isn't_.

She nods, withdrawing from his hold for a brief second before she frames Bellamy's face with her hands, which tremble only slightly. His face is warm and his jaw is patchy with the beginnings of his stubble. The muscle in his cheek moves under her palm as he swallows, then nods.

"Okay?" He asks, throat dry.

"Okay," she affirms, offering a smile that doesn't feel strained or forced. She's forgotten what that feels like. He smiles back, hesitantly at first, as if he hasn't gotten used to it either. It sends warmth through her to see Bellamy's smile and it's comforting to have him right there, right in front of her, so close to her. He tugs on a strand of her hair as she lets her arms fall back down.

"Come on, let's fix this mess," he directs, teasing like something's clicked back into place. Maybe it has, or maybe it still needs time, but it _feels_ better. _She_ feels better. _They_ feel better.

Automatically, she makes a face as he turns her back around to face the mirror – which, he's _right_ , one side is shorter than the other and that's not even addressing how much she needs to wash it. But she rolls her eyes and scrunches her face at him in the mirror, biting back a smile when he rolls his eyes too, reaching around her to pick back up the scissors from the sink. Bellamy combs through her hair again with his fingers, going slower this time, more mindful of the tangles, and she feels a heated blush at the back of her neck whenever his fingers brush over her skin. If he notices – he can't have – he doesn't say anything.

"Hey," she interrupts after he snips off a section of hair. He catches her eye in the mirror and cocks his head inquisitively. "I'm sorry."

"About –"

"About leaving you. The camp."

His brow furrows. "Clarke –"

"Bellamy," she cuts in before he goes on another speech. "You asked me to stay and –"

" _Clarke_ ," Bellamy says, more insistent but without the hostility marring their previous conversation. "I want you to stay because you want to."

"But you –"

He looks stricken. "I don't blame you for anything. I can't blame you for wanting to run away. And – you're back now."

Something is stuck in her throat and she feels the sting of tears behind her eyes. "Okay," she murmurs, refusing to cry right now, willing herself to fight it.

He hesitates. "Do you – do you want to stay?"

Clarke nods instantly, taking the chance to blink away the oncoming tears. "I came back because I wanted to. I want to be here," she explains firmly, even while her voice wavers slightly.

"Good," he says roughly. His eyes dart away from hers in the reflection, training themselves on her hair. "It's better when you're here."

A watery chuckle escapes her and a grin spreads across her face. "Now can I get the haircut I was promised?"

"I don't take orders from you," he points out, and Clarke marvels at what a difference the levity within this situation compared to the previous one in which he said the same words makes.

" _You're_ the one who said he was an expert."

"I never used that word," he protests. "I said – you know what, never mind. I'll finish this so we can get out of here."

She laughs, "The world has probably ended by the time we're finished here."

"I wouldn't discount that so easily," Bellamy comments, shaking his head, as he resumes the haircut. "So much shit's happened." He doesn't say it as a barb, but as an offhand remark, intended to incite her curiosity, and it succeeds in doing that. There's still a part of her that burns with the guilt of missing out, of abandoning their people like that – there always will be – but she listens without reserve to Bellamy tell her about the months she's missed. She vows not to miss any more.

Clarke's experiences with haircuts extend to her mother giving her a trim every few months on the Ark so that it falls just below her shoulders, so she's not the authority on whether or not Bellamy is doing a good job with her hair. He makes quick work of it, finishing up the side that doesn't line up, asking her whether she wants it shorter, continuing on when she nods. He tells her about the camp, does impressions of her mother that are too accurate, and only ventures to ask her about where she went once. She tells him that she'll tell him soon, but not yet, and he doesn't press further. Bellamy's like that, she knows, but she's thankful all the same. When he finishes, he fluffs the back of her hair, runs his fingers through the blonde hair that now falls above her shoulders, lighter, looser, better than before. It feels good. She feels good. It's just a haircut, but it helps and she likes it.

"So?" Bellamy's voice interrupts her self inspection in the mirror. She can't stop touching the ends of her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear, moving her head from side to side just to watch her hair shift.

"Guess you're officially an expert." Bellamy rolls his eyes, but purses his lips like he's holding back a smile.

"Glad I have your support," he says dryly, tossing the scissors into the sink and brushing the hair off his shirt. She grins at him in the mirror and turns around, leaning against the sink as she watches him tidy up. She takes the freedom to observe his movements around the tiny space, to run her eyes across his profile, lingering on the way his hair curls around his ears.

Bellamy stills, looks over his shoulder, giving her a look. "Why are you staring at me, Clarke?"

She rolls her eyes to distract from the blush that's fanning her cheeks. "Your hair's too long," she says with a fake grimace.

Making his way back to the mirror, he observes his reflection and then turns to raise an eyebrow in dispute. "I can see just fine, thanks."

Clarke reaches up to tug on the hair covering his forehead, the length of it past his eyebrows. "It's _getting_ too long," she amends. His hair seems to grow fast, and she's certain it'll be too long to see properly soon. Besides, a trim would look much nicer on him.

"What," Bellamy says. "You're gonna give me a haircut?" He smiles at her, half daring her to do so.

"Well, I did learn from an expert," Clarke teases, pushing his hair back only for it to flop back over his forehead. It's hard to miss the way he swallows when she traces his hairline with her thumb, and suddenly, she's all too aware of the proximity, but it's hard to summon up the desire to move. Bellamy reaches up to tuck some hair behind her ear, lingering there until he cups her cheek, running his thumb over the scratches scattered across, slowly healing. She's not sure if she's actually holding her breath or if it just feels like it –

He caresses her cheekbone once, slowly, before dropping his hand.

"Okay," he says finally. "Give me a haircut."

Clarke stares him straight in the eye, tries to suss out whether or not he's serious, but he doesn't back down or relent. There's a hint of a smirk that tells her to get on with it, which makes her huff and flick him in the chest.

"Fine," she says. "Stay still."

He doesn't, of course, but she narrows her eyes at him when she turns back around to face him, and it works because he stops moving with a sheepish smile. She starts at the hair covering the back of his neck, trimming off enough so that she can actually see his neck. His hair is surprisingly soft between her fingers as she combs it back and messes it up, but Bellamy keeps shifting on his feet, squirming and decidedly not keeping still.

" _Bellamy_ ," she warns and he grumbles, no doubt twisting his face in a grimace of some sort. She tugs on a strand of hair in response and he grunts.

"I'm _ticklish_ ," he admits and Clarke doesn't do a good job disguising her abrupt snort with a cough. Bellamy jerks his head around so that he can glare at her, eventually turning his entire body around as well and crossing his arms. She gives him her best innocent smile.

"You done?"

Ignoring his remark, she taps his cheek twice and crooks a finger to beckon him closer, which he does immediately. Bellamy has this smile on, one that's half-amused, half-something else, but he doesn't fuss as she starts trimming. He closes his eyes when hair starts falling on his face, but he doesn't lose his amusement. Clarke pauses to observe the way his eyelashes fan down, again struck by how close they are.

His nose twitches and it brings her out of her stupor, shaking her head slightly, embarrassed a little at herself, and she resumes snipping off the ends so that when she's done a few minutes later, his hair is shorter, a familiar length to the days after she thought she had killed him in the fire and before the days she had killed Finn by her hand. (Marking days by her destruction is a thing she needs to stop doing; she's working on that too.)

She takes a moment to look at her handiwork and impulsively, she presses her thumb into the dimple on his chin, withdrawing quickly and blushing furiously when Bellamy's eyes open and widen in surprise.

"Sorry," she stammers, "I don't know why I did that, I –"

He laughs, ducks his head to hide the color on his cheeks and Clarke feels a happy warmth at the sight of that.

Hand on his elbow, she turns him around to face the mirror. "Ta da," she says, with a mimed flourish to distract away from the heat she still feels on her cheeks.

Bellamy runs a hand through his hair, grins at her. She takes it as an approval.

"I'm gonna clean up in here," she says, reorganizing the few items on the sink. Out of the corner of her eye, Bellamy nods, and she waits for him to walk past her, to leave, but there are no sounds indicating it and she can feel Bellamy's eyes on her as she tidies up.

"Bellamy?"

In a rush, like he's wanted to say this for a while, he answers before she gets to ask him anything else. " _I'm_ sorry," he says imploringly. She has to let out a little laugh.

"I thought we had finished with –"

"For yelling at you and ignoring you since you came back. And not being there –"

"You were angry at me. You have every right to be."

"No, I –"

"Bellamy," she stops him, her tone brokering no room for argument. "I'm really glad we talked. That we're talking now." His face changes, seemingly fighting an urge to smile and a desire to continue his defense. He settles for a half-smile, a resigned, understanding one.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, but she knows he agrees. He joins her at the sink, hovering near her until she looks over at him.

Clarke knocks her arm against his. "Hey."

"Hey."

"We can get through this, right?"

Recognition passes across Bellamy's face before he nudges her back, pulling her against his side with an arm around her shoulder. He pauses briefly and then ducks his head down to press a kiss on top of her hair, smiling at her afterward. She feels her mouth tick up in a matching one.

"Yeah. We can get through this."

The scissors sit on the edge of the sink and the mirror is smudged with previous fingerprints. It's quiet in the room and if she concentrates, the hum of the Ark machinery pulses through the walls. In a few minutes, she'll have to find her mom, sit down with her again, try to tell her she doesn't need the incessant hovering. She'll have to figure out how to live back in this life she thought she could never face again. But – she looks at her reflection in the mirror, likes the smile she sees, and it can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry they didn't kiss. I really tried.
> 
> I'm [bestivals](http://bestivals.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


End file.
